When the blighted leaves waver in

When the blighted leaves waver in
The air, casting shadows away from noon,
Above the slumbering parents
Whose children are scattered across the field;

When the birds twitter their
Silken songs, seeking a warbling mate,
While the drunken friends, scoffing, boisterously stumble
Between the lazy ladies
Who can never escape their lewd stares;

When the silence fills the room
And the barely audible scrape of pen
On paper is discerned, and the knee
Trembles and shakes the desk so
That the tea fearfully mimics it
In fear of impending news;

When a blur of movement and sounds
Fills up the night, and all of time,
So that past, present, future are
Useless abstractions in the face of joy,
Of sparks of laughters, of flickering gazes,
Of darting strands of hair, of clumsy stumbles
And of the complete ineptitude of words;

When all the flowers have been taken,
And the petals swept away, when the pamphlets
Are discarded and the Bibles restored
Behind the benches that held that family
And their love, and their jealousy
On this very special day;

When the child cries alone in his crib
In the darkness of this room with its
Hidden, soothing blue tones, and the wails
Seem to him as the sole reminder of his existence —
Unaware of his lost doll lying on the floor;

When an old woman stands at the top
Of the world at the bottom of her life,
Surrounded by concrete and cement, oh,
And those people, obvious and oblivious below her
Who keep their eyes to the ground
But not at the 6 foot hole she repeatedly sees;

When the words fall short and the blank
Pages that are left are more truthful
Than the scribbles behind it —
Only then has life represented reality
For art is but words on paper, or brushstrokes on canvas.

Except when, for the briefest of moments,
Beauty and truth collide, and you see as I see
You run as I run, you think as I think,
You dream as I dream —
In that moment what then cannot
You and I do to recreate the world?